Arrows of Ashes and Gold
by hefcarter
Summary: This is a novel about the anti-hero known as the Black Unicorn, a highwayman and master criminal who serves as a shadowy foil to the Scarlet Pimpernel.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

England, 1792

It happened in Lincolnshire, on a long, lonely stretch of the Great North Road.

We'd left London quite early in the morning, papa seized by some curious inclination to put as much distance between us and the Home Counties as quickly as possible. This had surprised me, since he'd been up quite late the night before, arguing in his study with two Party men who'd called at Blakeney House unexpectedly after the Home Secretary's Ball.

Once we'd shaken free of London's urban sprawl, John the Driver set a challenging pace, requiring stops every twenty miles or so for a change of horse. We stopped in Huntingdon for a late breakfast, then again in Stamford for dinner at The George. Half-past three found us back on the road, and I'd thought myself refreshed enough to do a little reading. But the next thing I remember was being startled awake sometime in the late afternoon, judging from the light filtering in through the coach's windows. As I looked down in confusion at the book laying askew on my lap, I realized that I had fallen asleep again.

"What was that papa?" Phosey asked. I noticed then that I was not the only one suddenly awakened: Phosey's curly mop of hair was more rumpled than usual from leaning against the carriage wall, and both Sophie and papa were rubbing the remnants of sleep from their eyes.

Then we heard shouts from outside and the coach began to slow down rapidly, lurching to a sudden stop.

"Something must be in the road Phosey," Sophie said. "John will have it cleared quickly, I'm sure." She patted the young girl's hand, "It sounds like there are others out there with him," she added, as we heard more shouts, "so it will be cleared all the more quickly. Isn't that right Elektra?"

I nodded at the sound of my name, but didn't answer.

"Where are we papa?" I asked, watching his face. I didn't share Sophie's optimism about our unexpected stop. Something sounded off about the voices outside of the coach; how many of them were there? I had also seen something in papa's eyes that Sophie hadn't since she was sitting across from Phosey: I had seen the briefest flicker of fear.

"Lincolnshire," he said quietly. "We stopped for a change of horse at Thistleton about an hour ago."

Suddenly, we heard a rough voice very close to the coach. "Ger down off of there you gormless bastards."

I looked out my window, searching for any other vehicles.

There were none.

"Papa," I said, "I don't think there is an obstacle in the road."

He nodded, a quick jerk of his chin, then leaned forward to reach under his seat. He pulled out a long pistol richly inlaid with silver and gold in Turkish designs, and laid it down on the seat next to him, then piled his traveling cloak on top of it.

"Keep calm my girls," he said. As he spoke, the coach shifted from side to side as John the driver and Cliff the footman both climbed down off the box.

"Can't you just shoot them papa?" Phosey asked, her soft voice laced with hysteria.

"Phosey, my dear," papa answered, "I need you to be brave now. Everything will be all right. I cannot shoot them because I have only the one shot and there will be more than one of them—"

Abruptly the coach door was wrenched open. For a moment, it just stood ajar while we all held our breath to see what horrors awaited us, then a dirty man with greasy red hair and a pimply face popped his head into the carriage.

"Afternoon," he greeted papa cheerfully, touching his forelock. "Everybody out of th'coach if you please."

"You may treat with me sir," papa said. "But my daughters will remain in the coach. They are unmarried, and own nothing of value."

The red-headed man thoughtfully scratching at a facial sore with the hook in place of his right hand. "With all due respect to right clever dick such as thissen, that there is for us to determine. And since we are th'ones wi' th'pistols and since thart five of us and th'gaffer somewhere yonder, and thart only you and th'lassies, ye'd best do whatever we ask of you. Otherwise we'll be forc'd to take out our frustrations on th' driver." He stepped back so that we could see John and an evil looking little man with a mouth overcrowded with yellow teeth holding him by the neck with one hand and a pistol to John's temple with the other.

Poor John shook his head violently at the sound of this, tears streaming down his youthful face. I tried not to notice the growing stain spreading through the the groin area of his breeches.

"Ha!" crowed the ring leader. "He's already piss'd hisself. Ye might have sav'd him that humiliation if ye'd just stepped out of th' coach like we asked."

Papa sighed, looked at the three of us, and nodded almost imperceptivity. Without another word, Sophie stepped out of the coach. I rose to follow her so that Phosey wouldn't have to be next, then came papa, who, once alighted, turned his back bravely to the highwaymen so that he could hand poor Phosey out.

"It's all right lass," the ring leader said to the trembling girl, "this will all be over soon, so long as yer father and yer sisters cooperate wi' us." He winked at me, then and noticed my eyes on his hook.

"Happened in York when I were just a lad," he said, holding the instrument up for me to get a better look. "Caught stealing a lace waistcoat from th' mercer's shop. Fancied m'self summat of a dandy. Sentenced me to hang, they did, but th' kindly sirs took me right hand instead on account of me tender age. Thought it would reform m'self." He winked at me again, then turned to papa.

"But where are me manners?" he exclaimed, "Let me first introduce to ye th' Northern Gang. Me name is Red Jack, and I'm th' leader. This manky tyke here is Buford," he indicated the massive ogre of a man who'd come to stand next to him.

Buford's broad, ugly face also bore the marks of corporal punishment, marred down the left side by an angry red rope of scar tissue running the length from his piggy eye down to the corner of his mouth, and both nostrils of his broad, flat nose had been slit.

Buford positioned himself in front of Sophie and gave her a frank assessment from head to toe before honoring her with a nasty, gap-toothed grin.

"The two rapscallions wi' th' horses are Dicky and Oliver," Red Jack continued, indicating two barefoot youths dancing beneath the hooves of the agitated horses while carrying on conversation in some bastardized form of English, "and the mawngy chunterer over in yonder field is Garrick," he pointed to a figure positioned some distance away with a view to any oncoming traffic coming from either direction. "And finally," Red Jack concluded, "th' handsome tyke wi' th'coachman is Reuben. But I'll advise tha to give him his space. He's a right arch nayard, if ye know what I mean. Got an ugly soul to match his ugly face."

Reuben still held the pistol to poor John's head, using the threat to control Cliff and the postillian who sat quietly in the grass with their heads down.

Though I had no idea what on earth an "arch nayard" was, I was willing to bet that it wasn't pleasant. Then the nasty little man spoke, confirming my suspicions.

"I can't abide any more bluthering from th' gawly lass," he said, snarling as he swung his pistol towards Phosey. "Shut her up, or I'll do it m'self."

This only caused Phosey to wail louder. Putting my arm around her shoulders, I pulled her in close and began stroking her back the way I used to when she was small.

"It's all right Phosey," I murmured into her hair. "They are just scaring us now, but everything will be okay."

Problem was, papa looked worried.

"I see that ye is a fine gentleman an' that ye're worried over th'lassies," Red Jack said. "But if ye'll give us what we want quickly, then we'll leave ye in peace to continue on yer journey."

Papa nodded and held his arms out to be searched.

"Right then," said Red Jack, "I'll just search yer pockets while Oliver searches th' coach. Th' wee lad has a knack fer finding clever hiding spots," he added conspiratorially.

As papa submitted to the indignity of a personal search, the coach shook from Oliver's vigorous activities inside. Meanwhile Buford had slowly begun to inch towards Sophie, a calculating look in his eyes.

With some difficulty I wrenched free of Phosey's grasp so that I could transfer the girl to my other side, then I sidled up close to Sophie and linked my arm through hers. I glared at Buford, calling upon every ounce of silent threat within me, but Buford's eyes never left my sister.

"Right then," Red Jack said once he'd counted out the ₤25 in papa's coin purse and seen that Oliver had found only the Turkish pistol in the coach, "where is th' rest of th' brass then?"

Papa remained calm. "That is all I have."

A slow, evil smile spread across Buford's face.

"Are ye telling me that a fine gentleman wi' fine horses such as these is traveling from the Capital wi' only ₤25?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe it." Red Jack spat on the ground at papa's feet.

"You must believe it, sir, because it is true. I sent our servants and baggage ahead yesterday and my brass, as you call it, was packed in the luggage."

Red Jack sneered. "Ye're a clever dick! Ye leave me no choice but to search th' lasses. Buford!"

Buford's hand shot out and gripped Sophie's arm like a vice. She shrieked from surprise, and Buford's evil little smile graduated into a horrible grin.

"Take her into th' wood," Red Jack ordered. "Strip her an' search 'er thoroughly. But be quick about it; some feckless git is bound to come by sooner or later."

"You'll do no such thing!" Papa lunged towards Sophie, but found a pistol suddenly pressed into his chest. Red Jack pushed papa back to his place beside me, then transferred the barrel to my breast. All traces of humor had vanished from his hard eyes.

Sophie continued to shriek and struggle while Buford dragged her toward the trees.

"That lass is gone to ye," Red Jack said, his voice low and flat. "But ye still have two more to worrit about. If ye don't tell me where th' brass is hidden, I'll send Reuban into th' woods with th' tall lass, and then I'll take th' wee boddled lass for m'self."

I stood there holding Phosey tightly, a pistol pressed between my breasts, watching Sophie's struggles. I knew—as did we all—what Buford's "search" would entail, and the thought of that brute's hands on my poor sister left me feeling acutely sick. All we could do now was hope he didn't kill her, though death might be a merciful escape from the future memory of his torments.

They were at the tree line now. Suddenly she bit him and tore lose, desperately running away from the woods. But her skirts hindered her legs and the brute lurched after her, catching her easily and dragging her to the ground. Pinning her down with one hand, he began fumbling with her skirts with the other and it soon became evident that he meant to take her right there in front of us. Jack removed the pistol from my chest and turned to watch the show with obvious enjoyment.

"What is he doing?" Phosey cried, and I quickly turned her away from the horrible scene, crushing her face into my bosom. Tears streamed down my face and I knew that in a moment or two I would vomit. Sophie continued to shriek and scream all the while with Buford laughing, _laughing_ , in evil enjoyment over her.

Then a sound like a crack of thunder erupted around us, followed by a second, identical sound and a small explosion in the turf only a meter away from Sophie's struggles. Having never witnessed the firing of a firearm before, I had no idea what was happening, but followed papa's lead when he whirled around to look behind us.

What I saw then seemed almost too fantastical to be true. A man clothed all in black, his face obscured behind a black scarf and what appeared to be black boot polish, sat atop a black stallion wearing a strange medieval-looking black headpiece that ended in a long, twisted black horn protruding from the animal's forehead. We watched in stunned silence, and the man took a third pistol out of a specially-rigged saddle holster and fired it towards the would-be rapist as he continued to struggle with Sophie's skirts. But this shot seemed to get his attention.

Slowly, Buford got off of Sophie, who yanked her skirts back into place and then lay still on the ground.

Meanwhile, the Black Unicorn—for who else could this eccentric figure possibly be?—had pulled out yet another pistol which he kept trained on Buford who, with his hands up, took a few steps away from Sophie.

Once he reached about two yards, he lowered his hands to readjust his breeches, nonchalantly reaching towards his back as though to tuck in his shirt.

But just as I registered the crafty look in his eyes, a fourth shot tore through the air and Buford's chest burst in an explosion of blood and bone.

The force of the projectile knocked him clean off his feet and he landed with a thud, his hand still reaching behind him for the pistol tucked into the back of his breeches.

He lay there writhing and gurgling as he tried to breath through ruined lungs, drowning in his own blood while his lower limbs churned up the dirt around him.

Then abruptly it all stopped, his black soul cast forth from his body and launched ingloriously into eternity.

The Northern Gang troubled us no further.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Scarcliff Towers

 _North Yorkshire Moors_

 _August 1792_

It was dusk on the third day of our journey from London when I first glimpsed the Elizabethan Prodigy house.

Three-hundred years of dynastic good luck and a strict adherence to the aesthetics of symmetry resulted in a massive pile of blackish-gray stone and leaded glass buttressed by six square towers. The sun sank low behind the Pennines into the Irish Sea, tipping the balance from the pink and orange hues of sunset to the periwinkle glow of twilight. I thought Scarcliff Towers looked a cold, dreary place to be spending the final weeks of summer's transition into autumn.

At the gatehouse, John the Driver convinced Lord Rydale's gatekeepers that we were not a roving band gypsies engaged in an elaborate masquerade as the Marquess of Hertford and his three daughters; the setting sun cast just enough light for me to see the ornately-decorated scrollwork in the edifice. It featured a coat of arms superimposed with a large royal crown.

"No, the Bewforests are not, nor have they ever been, royals," papa said, reading my mind. "But this gatehouse is two-hundred years old, and in those days the Bewforests associated more closely with royalty. The crown advertises the fact that the house's builder, Bess Bewforest, outfitted this house with a special suite of rooms to accommodate royal visits. But more specifically, the crown signified her ambition that her granddaughter, Lady Evelyn, should succeed the childless Elizabeth Tudor as queen-regent upon the latter's death."

I turned to papa. "Were they cousins?"

Papa shook his head, his eyebrows gathered in a scholarly frown of recollection. "The association was never that close. Queen Elizabeth never came to stay here, and Lady Evelyn was never a true contender for the royal crown."

The wind loosed a mournful cry around our coach as we progressed down the tree-lined avenue, and I imagined why the Tudor queen had opted not to spend her summer months up in the wilds of North Yorkshire.

"The façade looks as though it has more glass than it does stone," Phosey exclaimed, her small voice a bit nasalized as she pressed her nose against the glass of the coach's window. "Don't you think so Sophie?"

I glanced at my young half-sister, startled. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have found her child-like eagerness charming. At just a few weeks past her fifteenth birthday, Phosey still had three more years stuck in the nursery before she would be allowed to join London Society for the Season. Notwithstanding the horrors of our journey, this excursion up to the North Country must be very exciting for her. Especially since papa had granted Phosey's governess leave to visit her mother in Blackpool for the duration of our stay.

Still. . .

I glanced to Sophie, hoping she would answer. She gave no indication of having heard Phosey, and continued to stare out the window. She had not spoken a word since Lincolnshire. Judging from the dark circles beneath her eyes, I thought it likely she had not slept much either.

Papa cleared his throat, drawing my attention. "Indeed it does my little one. It is a trait for which the house is famous. The six towers are placed to reinforce the weakened walls. And it has one more peculiarity just visible from here. Can you tell what it is?"

I watched papa a moment longer. I had thought that for a man of sixty-eight, he appeared remarkably untouched by the hand of time. The brightness of his eyes, reflecting his sharp intelligence and keen political instincts, did much to alleviate the telltale signs of a man reaching the final years of his life. But he seemed to have aged over these past couple of days; the light in his eyes had dimmed and he looked more frail than he had when we'd left London. The outlines of his stooped shoulders were painfully clear through the fine cloth of his traveling frock, and the blue channels of his veins stood out in stark relief against papery skin at his temples. I noticed for the first time the reediness of his voice, and the slight tremor in his hands.

I glanced back out the window. I tired of this game, pretending as though nothing had happened. For whose benefit did we play it? Sophie's? Or ours?

"It's the windows," I said, eying the alternating grid and canted bay windows. "They graduate in size from the basement to the third storey. Does that mean that the state rooms are on the third floor instead of the first?"

"It does," papa replied. "Bess Bewforest believed in the natural hierarchy of all things, and that even extended to the floors of her house—the best floors are at the top and the most humble floors at the bottom. Very peculiar for a prodigy house. And very inconvenient to constantly have to climb so many steps, as you shall see soon enough."

Our coach ground to a halt in front of the long columned porch, and I saw an army of footmen resplendent in scarlet livery descend, the pristine whiteness of their powdered wigs and gloves glowing slightly in the fading light.

The butler greeted us somberly at the front door, and once inside the hall more servants swarmed out of the gloom to quickly divest us of our traveling accoutrements before rushing us to an archaic wooden stairwell in the northern tower. From thence we were taken in a mad dash up to our rooms on the first floor to dress for supper.

The fact that I would have to dress and conduct myself socially for the next several hours put me in a very dark mood. An hour later, as the clocks chimed for ten o'clock, my mood had not improved when I stepped into the crowded drawing room on papa's arm.

Dearest Willow had worked her miracles on me, selecting my favorite gownof pale blue silk satin, with silver brocade detailed with silver bobbin-lace trim. She'd pouffed my up high on my head, with long cylindrical curls cascading down my back.

Barely had we made our appearance when a short, unfashionably buxom brunette with bright green eyes like a tabby cat's descended upon us with an exuberance I would soon find to be one of Lady Rydale's chief characteristics.

"There you are at last," she cried, her voice warmed by the rolling burr of a common Yorkshire brogue. "We've been waiting for you for _ages_. I was beginning to worry, wasn't I Eleazer? Wasn't I just telling you that I was beginning to worry?"

"'Eleazer' Bewforest, fourth earl of Rydale, was a portly gentleman with watery blue eyes, thinning white blond hair, and the rubicund complexion of a fair-skinned man who spent too much time out of doors. Not one to be embarrassed by his handsome wife's easy manners, he ambled over to take his place beside her. They were a remarkable couple, their union a rare example of a love match—love at first sight, in point of fact. Papa had told us at breakfast the morning of our departure: many years ago, the earl happened to be passing through Pickering on his way to Scarborough when he stopped at the tavern owned by Lady Rydale's father. There he first encountered Cathy, as she was known in those days, and found himself captivated by her pretty eyes and purity of spirit. Six months later he married her, the love match sealed forever by the fact that she brought nothing with her in the way of a trousseau, nor anything else of value.

"Just herself," papa had said, "which is enough for any happy marriage."

"Lady Tryphosia," Lady Rydale addressed the girl hiding behind us, "bless me, but you look more and more like your mother every day. But where is Lady Sophronia? Has she taken ill?"

Papa and I glanced at each other. "Er, yes," he said. "She was feeling a bit poorly when we left London. We hope she will be feeling fit again by tomorrow."

"Oh the poor dear!" Lady Rydale exclaimed. "If only I'd known sooner, I would have sent some tea and broth to her. I've heard all about those London soirees," she added with a wink to me. "I'll ring for Lucy straight away."

"You are very kind," papa answered with a bow.

Meanwhile I took the opportunity to glance around the room for any familiar faces. The more people I knew, the fewer onerous new acquaintances I would have to make and the quicker this evening would pass.

Sadly, I didn't see anyone I knew.

The cadaverous old woman in the corner whose jowly cheeks and flaccid, pendulous flesh at her throat lent her the look of a plucked turkey, was likely the earl's sister Lady Permelia.

And I figured the gentleman and young lady with matching platinum curls to be the Lord and Lady Rydale's two adult children: Edwin, Viscount Bewforest and Lady Dorothea Bewforest.

I couldn't imagine who the homely little fellow dressed in an old-fashioned suit of plain brown broadcloth could be, and I couldn't see the face of the dark-haired cavalier engaging all of Lady Dorothea's attention, though his sumptuous suit of gray velvet heavily laced and embroidered in silver was certainly arresting.

Lady Rydale, having sent the housemaid in search of broth for Sophie, now appeared suddenly at my side.

"Come with me dear, there is someone I would like you to meet," she said, taking me by the hand and towing me across the room.

At first I thought with a sinking feeling that she was taking me toward the professional man, but we passed him by and moved on towards Dorothea and her beautifully-dressed companion.

Then _Le Monsieur De L'Habit Gris_ shifted position, leaning one elegant shoulder against the gilded secrétaire cabinet next to him, allowing me my first glimpse of his face.

My pulse leapt, accelerating my heart into a thudding rhythm against my chest. Damning myself for a redhead, I immediately felt the telltale flush spreading up my throat.

Impossibly, _dangerously_ beautiful, I recognized at once the dark incubus from the Home Secretary's Ball.

It had been four months since last I saw him. To my astonishment, everything about him seemed just as I remembered. I had been so sure my memory of his absurd perfection had been embellished by my imagination, but I saw that I had done nothing of the sort. The only perceptible difference I could detect was that now, as I came to view him up close, his eyes looked to be the deepest, darkest shade of refulgent blue, reminding me of the sea under the light of a full moon. I had been so sure his eyes were black, the color of his soul.

 _I did not notice the music at first._

 _The somber harmony of the violas and cellos resonated too well with my feelings of regret as I watched Sebastian Throckmorton, the seventeen-year-old Earl of Delemere, storm away from me. The orchestra faded into the background along with the drawling accents, inane laughter, and the pervasive malodor of sour breath, French perfume, and wilting hothouse orchids._

 _Beside me, I heard the rustling frou-frou of heavy silk skirts that announced Sophie's arrival at my elbow. "You have made an enemy, I think," she observed softly._

 _My sister was correct. I had just informed my former stepson that I'd mourned his father for three months longer than the monster deserved; I'd only mourned him for that long out of respect for Sebastian and the Throckmorton family._

" _He will never understand," I murmured. And how could he? He was a boy standing on the threshold to manhood. He would very soon be the master of his own fate, and would enjoy the privilege of that freedom for the rest of his life._

" _The boy left you no choice Elektra," Charlotte pronounced from my other side. "There is nothing to feel guilty about. And to think that he imagined he could still order you back into mourning, especially now that you've returned to Blakeney Abbey and no longer live under his roof."_

 _I sighed, suddenly feeling very old for five and twenty. "His father does not deserve him. Not in life, and not in death."_

" _How can you say that?" Charlotte exclaimed. In time to the music, she beat her closed fan in a sharp tattoo against her inner wrist. Charlotte had the loveliest hands, and she'd developed the habit long ago of keeping them constantly in motion in order to show them off to their best effect. "Especially after his attempts to hound you into remarriage? As though paying your jointure these past three months has been some sort of hardship to him. And why the deuce did you choose to come out of mourning in a chartreuse gown? I cannot think of a worse color for your ginger curls. You look positively seasick."_

" _Auburn curls," I corrected. It was an old argument, originating from the simpler days of our girlhood, before we could be bothered with the way the sun freckled our skin and, in my case, lightened my hair to a most unfortunate shade of orange. I spared my longest and dearest friend a glance, but could not yet bring myself to smile. "It was the only fabric the modiste could acquire on such short notice. And Sebastian is not awful Charlotte. Just very young. And very proud."_

 _Sophie touched my arm gently. "And the Throckmortons would never have allowed you any peace, my love. Not until you remarried."_

 _I pressed my lips together and nodded. "I am sorry he forced me to cut ties with him and his family so publically."_

" _Still, I am not sure reminding young Delemere of the favor that generations of Blakeney's have enjoyed at court was very politic," Charlotte pointd out._

 _I had to agree. The implied threat, severing my connection to the Throckmortons with the dramatic finality of a guillotine blade, had been significant. I should never have said such a thing in public. The boy's pale eyes had widened while he listened to my words, and I found myself regretting them almost immediately. He stood a moment in stupefied silence, swaying on legs still spindly from his sudden growth spurt last summer. Then he'd rallied some of the famous Throckmorton arrogance, his sallow complexion turning blotchy and the tip of his nose bright red in his rage._

" _Devil hang you madam!" he had hissed, to the delight of the scandal-mongering harpies who'd been shadowing my steps since the Home Secretary's periwigged Stentor had first announced my arrival._

 _Sophie touched my arm gently, jolting me back to the present. "Don't worry Elektra. This has been quite a week for the gossips, what with Lord Waldergrave having been taken for £200 the night just before last on the road to Bath."_

 _From the corner of my eye, I saw Charlotte brush her fingers over the little jewel on her velvet choker, a small unicorn of black onyx and enamel. I had noticed several other ladies with similar jewels this evening. It seemed only a month ago that both ladies and gentlemen had been sporting jewels a la Scarlet Pimpernel._

" _And then there's Lady Loveney's scandal," Sophie continued, "with that mysterious Northumberland lord that broke just this week."_

 _Charlotte nodded enthusiastically, her honey-colored curls bouncing around her shoulders. "Ashby Bellecourt, Earl of Ashenhurst. He was schoolfellows with my brother at Eton, though Tristan thinks very poorly of him. He is rumored to be quite attractive," she added, her voice wistfull._

" _I imagine he would have to be," I replied absently. After scanning the crowd for a moment or two, I'd managed to find Sebastian again. I continued to track his progress as he moved furtively along the wall to the other end of the ballroom. But once he passed beneath the orchestra's gallery, making his way towards the great double doors leading to the card rooms, the churning sea of pastel silks and laced velvets finally swallowed his slight form completely. With a final sigh, I turned round to give my full attention back to my two companions. "Given the number of broken marriage vows to his credit."_

" _And Lady Loveney married only six months," Sophie murmured._

" _A love match, too!" Charlotte opened her fan with a flick of the wrist, the delicate strands of the Mechlin lace glistening like spider's silk as she angled it back and forth. "Lord Loveney is threatening a . suit. With that titillating story circulating Elektra, your reminding the young whelp of his place will barely cause a ripple, I assure you."_

 _My lip curled into a sneer before I could catch myself. "Enough of Lord Ashenhurst. Marriage has tarnished my opinion of the male sex enough as it is. Any more, and I may have to forego even dear papa's company."_

" _Well we certainly cannot have that!" Charlotte declared, closing her fan with an emphatic snap. "And I have the perfect means of distraction—don't you hear the music?"_

 _A flute's melody had added its light thread to the music's tapestry, followed by the darker, more sonorous timbre of the oboe's rapid countermelody. In and out they weaved, wrapping the sustained voices of the strings in their metrical pattern, anchored by the tinkling chords of the harpsichord._

 _Sophie arched a gilded brow, a slow smile spreading across her face. "A courante."_

" _But not just any courante. . . A French courante. Which means. . . " Charlotte allowed her voice to trail off significantly._

" _The Duchess must have a new light o' love," I finished. "Though the last one didn't seem to last very long."_

" _And could you?" Charlotte grasped my hand and began pulling me towards the crowd of spectators. "Come Elektra, let's have a look at her new pet. At the very least, he'll be handsome enough to distract you for a few moments from Lord Delemere."_

 _I shook my head as I allowed her to tow me along. "I find that Her Grace's preferences tend to run too far into the nursery for my tastes."_

 _Charlotte began parting the crowd with gentle pushes and polite entreaties, and soon I caught sight of the Dowager Duchess of Surrey's famous diamond and emerald coronet flashing from its precarious seat atop the enormous piled white tower of hair from her equally famous wig. No one was brave enough to inform Her Grace that such wigs had passed out of vogue nearly a decade ago, not least because everyone generally assumed that she had no hair of her own left beneath it._

 _And the French courante, even more antiquated than her French wig, was Her Grace's favorite dance. Dancing masters rarely taught it in England any longer, considering it too formal and stuffy for the modern tastes of the Enlightened. But even at the height of its popularity, it had been a dance only for the connoisseur. While its slow tempo variegating between triple and duple meter gave it the illusion of simplicity, in practice the dance was quite technically demanding, requiring unwavering concentration and considerable physical control. Its mastery was only the first of many hoops through which Her Grace's unfortunate paramours found themselves obliged to jump._

 _We had almost reached the front of the crowd of spectators, when Charlotte tapped a young buck on the shoulder with her fan, causing him to turn in surprise. She rested her hand familiarly on his arm and leaned in close for a few quiet words, though Sophie and I both knew from long experience that it was the unusual brilliance of her opal green eyes that would do most of the convincing._

 _Like so many who'd come before him, and likely many more to come after, the poor fellow didn't stand a chance. As we moved into the spot hastily vacated by Charlotte's latest admirer and his perplexed companions, I saw that Her Grace and her partner had their backs to us as they moved side by side away from the Presence, supplied this evening by Prinny, His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, watching from just a short distance away to our right. As usual he stood flanked by my cousin Sir Percy and his beautiful new wife Lady Marguerite Blakeney, the Beau Monde's acknowledged king and queen of fashion. My eyes lingered for a moment on Lady Blakeney's companion Lady Sarah Strathmore, now big with child. From the looks of her swollen belly, she likely would be retiring from Society soon for her lying-in. This would be her fourth child in as many years since her marriage. I didn't think I had ever seen her looking more beautiful._

 _Turning my attention to the duchess's partner, I noted that he was dark, with thick locks of softly waving hair, free from any powder or pomade, and pulled back into the traditional queue at the nape of his neck with a black satin ribbon. He was tall, but not excessively so, and built along sleek, graceful lines, broad in the shoulders and narrow at the hip._

 _But it was his attire that first caused me to pay him any particular notice. In the radiant glow from the hundreds of lights in the four cut-glass chandeliers and rows of girandoles mounted along the walls, the heavy gold embroidery encrusting every inch of his dress coat positively glittered as he moved, its sparks and incandescent flashes bringing to mind the mingled elements of gold and fire in a Chinese dragon's scales._

 _Unless Her Grace had begun bestowing upon her pets priceless gifts, something quite beyond the scope of imagination, then this gentleman could be no new light o' love. He surely did not number among the aristocracy's second or third sons, cast adrift by the vicissitudes of primogeniture to beg temporary shelter in the dowager duchess's chilly harbor. The confident set of his shoulders clearly belonged to a man long habituated to being his own master, and nothing in his movements suggested the puppyish awkwardness normally favored by the dowager._

 _In fact his grace was extraordinary, sinuous like the effortless flow of water around pebbles in a stream, yet predatory with all the gathered energy of a panther in the very last moment before a leap. Where others would mince and bounce their way through the steps, he moved in a seamless flow of motion, his body smoothly anticipating each sweeping phrase of the music._

 _Having reached the opposite wall, the dancers executed a quarter turn to face each other and proceeded through a short advance and then a lengthier, intricately choreographed retreat. Then they moved through another quarter turn to face Prinny, and my breath caught in my throat as I caught my first glimpse of his face._

 _He was not English, at least not entirely. His dark coloring did not hearken back to the raiders from Normandy, but rather to blood whispering of heat-scorched mornings, afternoon siestas, and the lazy currents of warm bluish-green waters. His eyes, as dark as his hair, were fringed with lashes so impossibly thick and long they cast permanent shadows beneath them, lending him a thoroughly debauched air. His cheekbones, high and razor sharp, were far too dramatic to be cut from the ancenstry of our Sceptered Isle. And then there was his beautifully-shaped mouth, so soft and sensuous it balanced perfectly his long, slightly aquiline nose that might otherwise have appeared arrogant._

 _But there was so much more to him than the sum of his parts. His beauty was staggering; the sort a Michelangelo or a Raphael might have found in some Mediterranean brothel; an incubus to be immortalized by lending a face to divinity._

" _Good Heavens," Charlotte breathed._

 _He advanced towards us, the light shimmering around him like the gentle waves of the flautist's vibrato as he moved through the intricate series of steps. The darkness of his eyes manufactured the illusion that he watched me as he approached, rather like a clever portrait whose gaze seems always to follow you no matter where you stand in the room._

" _He's no light o' love," I murmured to Sophie. "I'd wager mama's diamonds on it."_

" _No," Sophie whispered back. "He's too. . ."_

" _Erotic?" I suggested, watching the way he swiveled his hips when he turned back to face the dowager._

 _Sophie cleared her throat primly. "I was thinking too worldly."_

" _Then who is he?" Charlotte queried from my other side. "I don't think I've ever seen him before."_

 _I favored her with a sidelong look. "You think you could have forgotten that face? He's an Adonis. So, given Fate's penchant for irony, I imagine his name is probably Archibald. Or Herbert."_

" _This is fine talk for a lady who has sworn off marriage," Sophie retorted._

 _I snorted and snapped open my fan. "I escaped once my love, I do not think I should be so lucky a second time. In any case, my current thoughts have nothing whatsoever to do with matrimony, I assure you."_

" _Elektra!"_

" _But why does he keep looking at you Elektra?" Charlotte asked. "Surely you don't know him. . . do you?"_

 _I couldn't help but smile at the note of hesitation in her voice. Whomever this mystery lord might be, he gave off an unmitigated air of thorough disreputability. Though with a face like his, I wasn't sure a life of decadence and depravity could be helped. And given my late husband's predilection for degeneracy, I had been exposed to more than enough men and women of ill repute over the last seven years to blacken the reputation of any respectable lady. This dark beauty, however, did not number among them._

" _You may rest easy Charlotte, I do not know him," I replied. "Nor is he looking at me. It's a trick of his eyes, nothing more."_

" _Then why does he keep turning his head this way?" Sophie demanded._

" _Probably because he is watching you, my love."_

" _No. . ." Sophie sounded uncertain. "I agree with Charlotte. I think he is watching you Elektra."_

" _Enough. Both of you are mad as cats. I have never before laid eyes on him, and there is no other reason for him to pay me any special attention. Particularly not when I am wearing this dreadful gown, and standing between the two of you."_

" _Really?" Charlotte drawled, snapping open her fan with a smart flick of the wrist. "Perhaps he prefers ginger hair to blonde."_

" _Auburn. And I would find that highly unlikely." But since the dance was coming to a close, I saved myself the bother of elaborating any further._

 _The dowager duchess and her mystery lord, having passed one another in a diagonal that left them at opposite corners of the polished parquetry floor, turned to face one another and followed a circuitous path in a broad, clockwise spiral that brought them together in the center. Their hands touched briefly before they turned again to move counterclockwise in a tighter spiral that brought them back to their original stance side by side before the Presence in the center of the floor. The dance, however, would not be counted as finished until after the dancers had honored His Royal Highness with their respective curtsy and bow, and then they would turn and offer one another a slightly more restrained version of the same._

 _But as the last notes of the music reverberated throughout the ballroom, and Her Grace dipped low in a surprisingly graceful curtsy, her partner shifted the angle of his hips and executed his bow with an old fashioned Continental flourish towards my general direction rather than the future King of England's. A collective gasp erupted from the spectators, followed immediately by an uproar of agitated whispering as the Prince loosed a peal of silly, high-pitched laughter. The dark Adonis righted himself, and this time there was no mistaking the fact that he was looking directly at me, one corner of his beautiful mouth kicked up into a sardonic smirk._

" _And who is the lady who has caught your eye this time, you incorrigible scoundrel?" Prinny demanded as he leaned forward to gaze down our line of spectators through his quizzing glass. Once he reached us, he lowered his glass and an indolent smile spread across his face. "Ah, one of Hertford's daughters is it? But which one my dear fellow? The pretty blonde or the tall redhead?"_

 _I felt the heat rush to my face as I glanced around the room. Everyone was looking at us, their faces blending together into a mass of scorn and outrage._

" _The blonde is betrothed, I'm afraid," Prinny continued through a stifled yawn. "Though the redhead is recently widowed. Too recently, I should think, for her to be appearing amongst such gay company," he added, magnifying a lazy blue eye with his quizzing glass as he favored me with a critical stare. "But that might be good news for you, dear chap. I find that unconventional women do have a certain joie de vivre that often makes their pursuit a very pleasant distraction."_

" _Elektra!" Sophie hissed as she grabbed my arm. Mortified, I immediately followed her lead and dropped into a curtsy so deep my knees nearly grazed the floor. "Your Highness," I murmured, keeping my head bowed to hide the spectacular blush burning from my hairline down to my collar bones._

 _But thankfully, the Prince had already tired of us and directed his attention back to Lady Blakeney. Sophie and I quickly made our escape, pushing rudely through the crowd in our haste. Charlotte awaited us near the doors leading to the supper room, her face anxious. I could not blame her for abandoning us; Sophie's betrothal and my widowhood bolstered us somewhat from the harsher aspects of public opinion, as did the fact that we were the daughters of the fifth marquess of Hertford. Had Prinny's careless comments been directed at Charlotte, the unmarried sister of a baronet, it could have cost her far more dearly than a few moments of embarrassment._

 _Charlotte reached out to take both my hands and gave them a little squeeze. "I am sorry Elektra. It is my fault—I am the one who dragged you over to watch the dance."_

" _It is nothing, my love," I waved my hand breezily, hoping she didn't notice my forced smile. "Everyone will surely have forgotten it by the end of the evening, I promise you."_

 _Charlotte did not look convinced._

 _Quickly, I leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Come Charlotte, why this long face? It is just as you told me earlier: Lord Ashenhurst's scandal with Lady Loveney will surely eclipse everything else that happens this week. Some mystery libertine mocking a reclusive bluestocking in a dreadful chartreuse gown simply isn't shocking enough to warrant Society's attention for long."_

 _Sophie nodded. "Especially since Prinny made it sound as though this er, gentleman, has done this sort of thing before. And since Elektra does not know him, it means nothing, I am sure."_

" _It means nothing," I agreed. "But come my love, I would like to go find papa and sit down for supper. It has suddenly become too hot in here for my tastes."_

 _Charlotte nodded as she allowed herself to be drawn out of the ballroom. "And Tristan," she said. "He'll likely be with Lord Hertford. But, Elektra?"_

" _Yes?" I turned and found her biting her lip uncertainly._

" _I think it probably best if we do not mention this to my brother."_

" _Nor to Thad," Sophie said._

 _I nodded. "Agreed. In fact, let us make a promise to each other: we shall never speak of this again. Not to each other, and not to anyone else."_

 _Charlotte sagged against the boning of her stays with relief, and the lines of tension between Sophie's brows melted away._

" _Good," I said, my voice sounding far more resolute than I felt. I fancied I could still feel his eyes on me, but I quickly turned my back on the ballroom before I could betray myself. "I am famished. Let us go find papa and Tristan."_

 _But Charlotte had been correct about one thing at least: I had forgotten completely my troubles with Sebastian and the Throckmorton clan._

"Dorothea!" Lady Rydale's voice jolted me back to the present. "You have monopolized Lord Ashenhurst's attention for long enough. Your poor cousin has been standing alone for twenty minutes. Go tend to him at once." The girl's shoulders hunched at the rebuke, then she whirled around to face her mother in a flurry of platinum ringlets and lace flounces, rebellion writ clearly in her bright eyes.

When she saw me standing next to her mama, she seemed to think better of it, and in a remarkable display of spoiled manners turned back to her erstwhile partner in conversation, bobbed a quick curtsey, then sailed off towards the professional man without the slightest acknowledgment of my presence.

But I was too preoccupied to take any real offence to the girl's rudeness: I knew that name Ashenhurst from somewhere, though I couldn't place it.

Meanwhile, Lady Rydale had begun the introductions. "Lord Ashenhurst," she said, "the lady about whom I spoke to you earlier has taken ill this evening, but this is her charming sister—"

"—Lady Delemere," he finished smoothly. His voice was almost as lovely as he was, deep and musical, his public school accents shaped by the hint of an exotic cadence I could not place. "It is a great honor."

As he bowed over my hand, sending a small electric charge up my arm as he brought my fingers to his lips, I was confused at first by his antiquated Continental manners.

Then I realized he was mocking me.

Again.

In a flash, I remembered why his name seemed so familiar: I knew it in conjunction with Lady Loveney, the woman whose reputation he'd shattered with scandal the week of the Home Secretary's ball.

 _This_ was Ashby Bellecourt, the mysterious Northumberland Earl of Ashenhurst.

I snatched my hand away from his lips. "The honor, I'm afraid, is all yours sir. Your reputation precedes you."

"It has a tendency to do that I'm afraid," he drawled as he straightened back up. "Though I must admit I never thought you to be one for gossip Lady Delemere."

"Thought, sir?" I exclaimed. "You speak in the past tense. When have you had reason to think of me before this evening?"

"Please forgive me for turning your own words against you milady," he replied. He crossed his arms and casually leaned once more against the gilded cabinet, "but your reputation madam has preceded you."

"I do not know what you mean," I retorted. "If my reputation has preceded me, it cannot be for the same reasons that yours precedes you—"

"Well now!" interjected poor Lady Rydale, who had stood watching this nasty repartee in astonished silence. "I think I hear my nephew calling for me, so I'll just leave you two to become better acquainted."

And off she went, abandoning me to the attentions of this confounded peacock, her duties as hostess and mama discharged with efficiency.

Dorothea, I noted enviously, was safely across the room engaged in sulky conversation with her dull cousin. I turned back to glower at the pretty creature now watching me with the guileless expression of an angel.

"I dare say," he said after we'd stared at each other a awhile in silence, "I think this dreadful evening will pass by more quickly if we speak to each other. I intend to play the part of the perfect gentleman this evening, so you may as well play the part of the perfect lady. It can be our own private game."

I gasped before I could catch myself. "And what is that supposed to mean? Are you insinuating that I am not a lady?"

A corner of his sensuous mouth kicked up raffishly. "That is exactly what I am insinuating. And you know it to be true, so don't pretend to be offended. Now," he waved the matter aside dismissively as I nearly choked in horror, "at this point, we are supposed to figure out whether we have any acquaintances in common."

"How dare you!" I hissed. "In what manner do you suppose I am not a lady?"

He sighed, already bored. "You have too much fire for a lady, and your _virtus_ is decidedly unfeminine. Now, back to the question of our acquaintances—"

"You are a horrible cad," I cut in,"A lecher! A debaucher! A miserable—"

"I didn't think we did either," he replied. "Though for propriety's sake, I had to ask. Now we shall ask each other about our families, and we can discuss them for a while. I will ask first—"

"Does Beelzebub have a family?"

"He does indeed," he rejoined with a smile. "A lovely family, in point of fact—"

"I find that hard to believe."

"But you are cheating," he carried on blithely. "I am supposed to ask you first. How is your family Lady Delemere? Somewhat smaller, I suppose, since you sorted that young reprobate Sebastian Delemere out at the ball. Bravo, by the way. But since he's not the sort to cultivate forgiveness in his black heart, I assume that your public action against him has effectively cut you off from the rest of the Throckmorton clan?"

"You are in no moral position to call anyone else a reprobate!" I exclaimed. "He is just a boy with a boy's youthful pride, nothing more."

"Since I am indeed a reprobate myself, I am in the perfect moral position to recognize the qualities of degeneracy in others," he rejoined, his expression suddenly serious. "And young Delemere _is_ a reprobate. My brother Chrysander is schoolfellows with him at Westminster—an attachment I regret in the extreme—and his reports home regarding Delemere demonstrate beyond a doubt that the young marquess is following perfectly in his father's footsteps. The acorn, to be sure, has not fallen far from the tree."

I snapped open my fan. It had suddenly become very warm in here. "You are wrong. The boy takes after his mother. He will not become like his father."

"No Elektra—do you mind if I call you that? I hate using such a dreadful surname to address a beautiful woman. I am afraid that in this case you are the one who is wrong. The boy already is like his father. If he is like his mother, then she must have been a whore. And since a man can withstand the reputation for being a whore much more readily than a woman, I think it best if we just agree that the boy takes after his father."

I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut, finding myself at an utter loss for words.

Suddenly he leaned in close, and for a horrified moment I thought he intended to kiss me. Instead his lips grazed my cheekbone, and then the warmth of his breath stirring the tiny hairs in my ear caused a series of shivers to chase their way down my spine. "Elektra, your shouting has caused a scene," he murmured. "Judge carefully what you say next. Everyone in the room is now listening."

These words affected me like a splash of cold water. Glancing around, I saw all eyes fixed on us with varying degrees of astonishment.

Except for Dorothea, who looked triumphant.

Then, mercifully, the large double doors to the dining room swung open, and the butler and a footman came to stand on each side of the doorway. Lord Ashenhurst silently offered me his arm, and I took it, allowing him to guide me into place behind papa and Lady Rydale.

"No," I said as we proceeded into the dining room.

"No what? I've forgotten what we were talking about."

"No, you may not call me Elektra. Not ever."

"Very well Elektra," he replied. "I am and will always remain your most humble and devoted servant."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2

The Secret Lover

Shockingly, dinner was not ruined. Lord Ashenhurst behaved himself, addressing me only to enquire whether I would take more of the fish or more of the lamb and so forth.

At one point he did raise his wine glass to me, asking whether I would take wine with him. The rest of the table held their collective breath as I struggled with the temptation to decline, but that would only cause another scene. So I raised my glass and took a sip, wishing that I could toss it onto his face instead.

This little ritual seemed to have a cathartic effect on the rest of the table. We continued to sit in silence while footmen cleared the table away the first course and quickly reset it with a fresh white table cloth for the second course; but by the time the food arrived promptly thereafter, everyone had relaxed enough for conversation.

I took stock of my surroundings, and found Lord Rydale's dining room to be highly unusual for the standards of the day. Most Palladian dining rooms were light and airy, with pastel silks covering the walls, plush carpets, and delicate painted plasterwork in neo-classical motifs. Then, of course, there would be the room's dramatic _pièce de résistance_ : a French chandelier of cut glass glittering prismatically as it refracted candlelight off its multitude of prisms, drops, beads, and faceted lustres.

But this room, like the rest of the house, was dark.

The ancient oak paneling and threadbare carpets in faded Oriental designs absorbed the light like a sponge, and a two-tiered chandelier looked heavy and old. The colossal fireplace, large enough to roast a sheep or a pig, matched the size of the room itself—at least twice the size of a modern dining room; so large in fact that much of the ancient furnishings and tapestries remained totally obscured by shadow, lending our company the tenebrous mood of a Caravaggio, or perhaps a nocturne by de La Tour.

"Lady Delemere," Lord Rydale's voice broke through my reverie, "I, ah, see that you are admiring the room."

"Yes milord." I turned to smile at my host. "I have never seen a dining room quite like it before."

The good earl's countenance registered visible relief at my friendliness. "That is because it was not intended for a dining room. Or at least not as we would recognize one today. This room originated as the Great Chamber. When my great great grandmother Bess Bewforest built this house, she called for a particularly well-appointed Great Chamber, since in was intended to become Her Royal Highness's Presence Chamber in the event of a royal visit."

"The Lady Bess seemed confident of the queen's favor," I said. "Papa pointed out the royal crowns on your gatehouse."

He nodded. "She was. If you look carefully at the chimney piece, you will see elements from both the Bewforest coat of arms, as well as the Tudor. The light is too dim just now, but if you come back during the day, you'll see the crowned lion rampant, the shamrock, the thistle, and the Tudor Rose—all heraldic devices from the royal coat of arms. And if you'll just look up at the ceiling—" Lord Rydale paused for us all to dutifully look up, "—you'll see that the geometric design repeated in the plasterwork is actually the Tudor Rose."

Most of the ceiling was lost in the gloom, but in the area just over the chandelier I could make out the double rose pattern signifying the joining of red rose of Lancashire and the white rose of Yorkshire.

"Indeed it is!" I exclaimed. "But Lord Rydale, I have been in old houses before, but never one quite like this. How is it that everything has survived intact over the centuries?"

"I am a bit of an antiquarian you might say," he answered, pale eyes bright with enthusiasm. "The only updates I have made to this house have been for comfort, not fashion. Except for my wife's saloon that is. And the conservatory on the ground floor next to the gardens. Otherwise this house is quite unique. And mysterious. Of course you will have noticed the strange arrangement of the rooms—the humblest ones on the ground floor, the grandest up here on the third floor? Yes?"

I nodded as I swallowed a mouthful of lamb fricasseed, making a mental note to compliment Lady Rydale later on her cook.

"Well, this house is also one of the first of this period to incorporate the use of corridors—"

"Oh for heaven's sake!" Lady Rydale interrupted, her hands raised in mock surrender, "Not the corridors again Eleazer! I keep telling you that no one cares about the corridors. Tell Lady Delemere about Bess's secret lover—or even the priest's hidey hole, but spare us from the corridors!"

"Bess had a secret lover?" I winked at Lady Rydale before turning my attention back to her husband. "This woman is becoming more interesting by the minute!"

"Yes!" Lord Rydale answered before his wife could chime in again. "She had a secret lover. So secret in fact that no one knew of his existence during her lifetime. But a few lines in her final Will and Testament indicate that she had carried on a secret love affair with an unknown man for nearly two decades. . . assuming that she waited to begin the relationship until after her second husband died."

"But the first Earl of Rydale was a very old man at the time of his death," Lady Permelia's warbled voice cut in. "Who are we to assume that she waited? I would not wait."

A fine declaration coming from the virgin spinster, a fact not lost on Lord Ashenhurst whom I glimpsed smiling into his napkin out of the corner of my eye.

"Either way, we have no idea who the fellow was," Lord Rydale said. "I assume Algernon that you pointed out the parapets to your lovely daughters upon your arrival?"

"I beg your pardon dear friend, but I did not," papa replied. "We were already late for dinner and I didn't want to keep Lady Rydale waiting any longer than absolutely necessary."

"Then you are forgiven," Lady Rydale said. "But the lasses really must see the parapets—perhaps tomorrow if you walk in the garden after breakfast? I'd show you them myself, but Permelia and I will be in town for most of the day. Normally I couldn't be the least bit bothered over parapets myself, but our parapets are distinctive because they give us one of the very few clues we have to the mystery lover's identity."

I frowned, not following. "The parapets? As in the _roof_?"

"The initials 'BB' are embedded in scrollwork at the top of each tower," young Lord Bewforest drawled in a startling falsetto. "Nothing to become so worked up over. For all we know, they could be the initials of the house's architect or some other equally banal personage."

"Don't be ridiculous Edwin," Lady Rydale admonished her son. "Of course the 'B' stands for Bewforest, so the other 'B' must be the first letter of her lover's surname."

"Or the 'B' could stand for Bess, and the 'B' could be the first letter of her lover's Christian name," Lord Rydale said. "Better it were the first letter of his surname, because we could then look up the Elizabethan peers of the realm and see all those whose family names began with the letter 'B' That would narrow the field considerably."

"More trouble than it's worth," Lord Bewforest said, stifling an ostentatious yawn. "Debrett's _Peerage_ does not go back that far, I'm afraid. And you are assuming, sir, that the fellow was an aristocrat. Perhaps he was a ditch digger, or a gypsy."

Lord Rydale glowered at his son.

"Eleezer," papa called Lord Rydale's attention away from his irritating progeny, "what is this about a priest hole? Scarcliff Towers truly has a priest hole?"

"Yes. We found it about five years ago at the base of the southern tower," Lord Rydale said, still glowering at his son. "We'd just had a great storm and there was some flooding at the bases of the northern and southwestern towers. So we executed a search for water damage in the four remaining towers, and there it was—hidden behind a storeroom."

"But a priest hole?" papa countered. "The Bewforests were among the first to convert to the new faith when it first reached our shores. Your ancestors are listed in _Foxe's Book of Martyrs_. Bewforests fought for Cromwell for goodness sake!"

"You are correct Algernon, but it's a priest hole. Set up as a chapel actually, complete with altar, rood screen, chalice, tabernacle, statuary of the Virgin, and all the other papist paraphernalia. It even has an old, moldy copy of the Latin Vulgate and a Missal."

"How bizarre," papa exclaimed. "And it's at the base of the southern tower you said?"

Lord Rydale held his glass while a footman refilled it. "Yes. And I left it as I found it. You are more than welcome to go have a look. We've had carpenters in, everything is structurally sound. Just try not to handle anything for too prolonged a period—some things, like the Missal, are disintegrating more and more with each passing day."

"Lady Rydale. . . " a timid voice suddenly cut into the conversation before papa could thank Lord Rydale. Everyone at the table turned in unison to gaze in surprise at our party's youngest member.

"Yes Lady Tryphosia?" our hostess answered. "How may I assist you?"

"You had said that the parapets were one of the only clues you had for the lover's identity. . ."

"Yes child," Lady Rydale replied. "Would you like to know what the others are?"

Phosey nodded shyly.

"How about we just tell you about the second best clue we have, and we'll leave the others a mystery for you to discover on your own during your stay? It'll help you pass the time," suggested Lord Rydale.

"What a splendid idea!" Lady Rydale exclaimed. "Well Eleazer, would you like to tell her? Or shall I?"

"I think I shall tell her m'dear," he said. "As I mentioned, Bess's final Will and Testament makes mention of her lover, albeit obliquely. She left ₤100—quite a sum in those days—to a Father Bartolommeo Zaldivar for an undisclosed number of masses to be performed in the memory of her lover, whom she refers to only as the Black Unicorn."

I gasped as my fork clattered down on my plate. " _What_?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3

Black Unicorns

Throughout Lord Rydale's final course, a dessert of sweetmeats, chocolate, and fruit, I feigned polite interest as our company chatted animatedly about black unicorns.

Lord Rydale told us of the black unicorns scattered throughout the estate's grounds, and papa told him of the Black Unicorn, the highwayman heretofore plaguing the major arteries in and out of London, with a special preference for the road to Bath.

I myself had first heard tell of the Black Unicorn from Charlotte's brother Tristan, about six months earlier at Lady Millicent Holloway's music night at Holloway House in Grosvenor Square.

"We've been trying to keep his activities quiet," Tristan had explained. "We don't want the miscreant's success to inspire others to follow suit. Though this highwayman has a very particular way of doing things, and thus far no one has been seriously hurt. It seems that he is only looking for quick cooperation," he'd added. "And so long as he gets it, he is content to leave his victims unharmed."

"A highwayman though!" Sophie had exclaimed. "In this day and age? It seems very bizarre."

"Indeed," Tristan replied. "We'd thought highwaymen of this caliber to have been a plague of the past, made obsolete by the King's Messengers and the the Runners. But this Black Unicorn chap is very clever, and eludes the traps that so successfully ensnared his predecessors fifty years ago."

But despite the authorities' best efforts, word of the Black Unicorn's daring exploits soon spread. He became all anyone in the Beau Monde could talk about. The elusive figure inevitably became infused with an aura of romance, and his popularity began to compete even with that of the Scarlet Pimpernel among ladies of fashion, who sported jewels fashioned of onyx shaped into black unicorns at their throats and in their hair. Meanwhile young bucks took to prowling the highways at night in the hopes of testing their mettle against the wily gentleman of the roads.

Papa reported all this and more to our company, as well as a rather succinct version of our personal experience with the highwayman. It was bound to come out sooner or later anyway, though he edited his account to keep it suitable for the ladies and to fulfill his part of the oath we'd all sworn to Sophie.

As the Yorkshire ladies clapped their hands in delight and fell under the same spell as the ladies of London Society, I drank my wine in silence, hoping it would chase away the dark memories of poor Sophie being dragged to the ground.

After dinner Phosey was sent down to bed, too exhausted to put up much of an argument. The rest of the ladies retired to Lady Rydale's saloon for coffee and tea. As Lord Rydale had indicated, this room was of a more modern design, decorated in pale blue and gold with modern French furnishings. But it was still quite dim, lit only by firelight and the four lights in a candelabra on a torchère in the corner, their lambent radiance flashing off the giltwood _canapé_ and the heavy gilt frames of the two large pier-lights between the windows. There we made idle chit-chat for thirty minutes while the gentlemen remained in the Great Chamber to smoke and drink brandy.

Once our masculine company rejoined us, I indulged in a second cup of coffee, listened to Dorothea play the Bewforests' new fortepiano and sing for twenty minutes, then made my excuses and bid everyone an early good night. My chamberstick lighting the way, I slowly made my way down one of Lord Rydale's beloved corridors to the stairwell in the northern tower as my mind drifted back to the Black Unicorn. I could easily have fallen under the same spell as the rest of society, especially given his role in saving Sophie from Buford's attentions. But instead I felt only a deep abhorrence for the man, fueled by vengeful feelings so powerful they threatened to twist my stomach in knots.

But this thirst for retribution had not been automatic. When the Black Unicorn left us as abruptly as he'd arrived, I had thought him a hero. It was only later that I realized his true purpose for being on that desolate stretch of the Great North Road.

Once back down on the first floor, I walked down the dark corridor leading to our chambers and came to a stop before a door several down from mine.

I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated.

It was the Black Unicorn's fault that we had been stopped.

The Black Unicorn had earned himself a mortal enemy the day his path crossed mine. And when he is eventually brought to justice, as all rogues of his ilk are sooner or later, I shall travel to London or to York or to wherever he may be, and I will watch the grim spectacle of his inglorious launch into eternity. And if there is anything—anything at all—that I can do to hasten his progress to that end, I swore to Sophie in the darkest corner of my heart that I would do it.

I would destroy the Black Unicorn, or see him destroyed.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and knocked softy.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Daphne's Arrow

"Come in Elektra," Sophie called.

The room inside was dim, lit only by a single candle on the dressing table, its reflected flame flickering a hundred times in the tiny diamond-shaped panes of the grid window's leaded glass.

Phosey's deep rhythmic breathing came from the dark recesses of the massive bed in the center of the room, its old fashioned hangings tied back to its four posts. In the winter months they would be in constant use, but for now only the remnants of the fire smoldering in the fireplace was needed to keep the damp chill of the night mists at bay.

Sophie sat at a dressing table _en chemisier_ , meditatively brushing out her long flaxen hair, her dove gray eyes unfocused as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. An empty bowl and teapot with teacup sat on the table, waiting to be cleared away.

When I closed the door quietly behind me, Phosey snorted and the trance was broken. Sophie turned to me and smiled. She looked so young and delicate, so heartbreakingly fragile—like an angel fallen down to this hellish world with broken wings. I smiled back, seating myself lightly on the foot of the bed, not sure how to begin. To my surprise, I didn't have to.

Sophie turned to look once more in the mirror. "Elektra, do you remember the story of Daphne and Apollo?"

I frowned, reaching back through old memories to our days in the schoolroom. Papa had taken us both on a Grand Tour just after my eighteenth birthday, and Sophie and I had spent a year studying the Classics in preparation. "The one where Daphne is turned into a tree to escape from Apollo's amorous advances?"

"Yes, but that is the end of the story. Do you remember the beginning?"

"I think so." I paused a moment to remember. "Apollo ridicules Eros's use of a bow and arrow, saying that such weapons are for warriors, not children. So Eros fashions two arrows: one of gold and the other of lead. He shoots Apollo with the golden arrow, causing him to fall in love with Daphne, and he shoots Daphne with the lead arrow, causing her to abhor the romantic advances of all her suitors, including Apollo.

"She begs and pleads with her father, the river god Peneus, to allow her to remain unmarried like the virgin goddess Artemis, but her father refuses.

"Then, just as Apollo is about to catch her, she begs her father to change her form, since it is her beauty that has brought her to this danger. He obliges and turns her into a bay laurel tree just as Apollo reaches her."

"Yes." Sophie twisted round on the padded bench to look at me, her eyes strangely intent. "That is the story exactly. I am worried about you Elektra; I am worried that Eros has shot you with an arrow of lead."

I stared at her a moment, quite taken aback. I shook my head. "You are worried about _me_? _I_ am worried about _you_! After what transpired yesterday—"

"—That was nothing Elektra," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "A moment's humiliation, nothing more. Far more troubling is your lead arrow. It turns you away from the attentions of your suitors and convinces you that a life of lonely solitude is preferable to one of marital harmony and motherhood."

"A moment's humiliation?" I repeated. "Sophie, I think it was more serious than that."

"I told you it was nothing," she replied, an edge of warning in her voice. "I think it best if we all just forget it happened."

"But Sophie—"

"Enough!" she snapped. "I do not wish to talk about it. I am _fine_. But what of your lead arrow Elektra?"

I deliberated for a moment, deciding whether or not I should press the issue. The last thing I wanted to do was upset her, but I did not believe for a moment that she was as fine. I did not even know for sure whether Thad had yet kissed her, and I knew for certain that he had not dared to take any liberties with her of the sort that her attacker did with such brutality. In the end, I took the cowardly route of least resistance, telling myself that she would come to me when she was ready to talk.

"Very well," I said. "If feeling that a life of independent spinsterhood is far more appealing than one of sexual slavery means that I have been shot with a lead arrow, then I suppose I have. But please remember I have seven years experience to guide me in this decision. And I have no suitors," I added.

"You have Sir Tristan."

"That was a very long time ago. He is certainly not my suitor any longer."

"He wants you, Elektra. It's written clearly on his face for everyone to see every time he's near you."

I shook my head, using the movement to tear my eyes away hers. Outside, I could see moisture trickling down the window's glass, signaling the creep of a heavy mist over the grounds. Gently, I explained "I did not come here to defend my choices to you Sophie. Just as I must accept your decision to marry Thaddeus, you must accept my decision to never remarry."

"You think you will never love again?"

"I know I will not. Love is a weakness; a means for one person to control the life of another. And men cannot help but abuse that control; it is a fundamental aspect of their nature to do so. I will never allow a man that kind of control over me again."

"But do you really think that writing silly novels will afford you an acceptable substitute for motherhood?" she asked quietly.

Her words struck me. The absence of any issue from my marriage to William Throckmorton probably had more to do with the incentives he gave me to refuse him access to my bed than any reproductive deficiencies on my part, though I could never be sure. The brute did occasionally manage to break through my defenses, and still I never experienced so much as a late visit of the French Lady to furnish any hope in my heart. Suddenly I felt myself becoming angry, though I tried to reign it in. Sophie's cruelty was simply a manifestation of her wounded spirit, nothing more.

"My decision has been informed by my experience," I said. "The day I buried William, I became the mistress of my own destiny, and so I shall remain for the rest of my time on this earth. As I said, love is weakness, and I shall never be weak again. But Sophie," I continued more gently. "I came here to check up on you. You skipped dinner, so I assume you must not be quite as recovered as you are leading me to believe."

"I know, but I am fine. Really." She sighed, and I watched her shoulders release some of their tension. Then she set down her brush with exaggerated care. "I admit that at first I wasn't. Like Daphne, I prayed that my form might change so that I might never attract such brutal attentions and undergo such indignities again. But then I thought of my Thad, and I remembered that all men are not brutes. But God granted my wish nonetheless."

I couldn't help but smile. "He turned you into a tree Sophie?"

The corners of her mouth twitched. "My outer form has remained the same, of course. But I have become something stronger—not unlike a bay laurel tree—on the inside. Heaven forbid anything like this should ever happen again; but if is should, it will not break me.

"Though," she added with a rueful smile, "I am feeling rather hungry. Broth and tea are not sufficient for a day's sustenance."

"And what about Thad? Are you going to tell him?"

In the mirror, I saw her brow wrinkle as a shadow clouded her eyes.

"Of course," she replied evenly. "A marriage should not begin with secrets. You would know that better than anyone I suppose."

Indeed I did. Secrets are poisonous things, and the bigger the secret, the more deadly its corrosive venom. My late husband had kept many secrets from me, and the experience was enough to instill in me a very healthy mistrust of men with secretive natures. Which essentially meant that I mistrusted all men.

Sophie stifled a yawn, and I decided our talk had progressed as far is it could for now. I still sensed that she carried a heavy burden on her heart, but she needed her rest. I thought it likely that she had not slept much for the last two nights.

"Very well then," I said, catching her yawn as I rose from my perch. "I am greatly fatigued, and since I am relatively confidant that you are not going to tear out all your hair and fling yourself out the window, I will bid you good night. I expect I will see you in the morning for breakfast?"

"Indeed you will," she agreed. "No doubt with a voracious appetite by that time. Though not _too_ early. I expect I shall sleep well tonight."

At the door, I turned to her and winked."Not _too_ early then. Though I imagine it will be Phosey waking you, not me."

Once back in the corridor, I walked slowly down to my own chamber, lost in thought. I knew Sophie to be possessed of a nature too tender to allow her such easy peace from her ordeal, but the fact remained that I could not force her to unburden herself before she was ready. And who knew? Perhaps it would not even be me that she confided in, though I couldn't imagine whom else she would trust with such an intimacy.

Reaching my door at last, I reached for the handle and suddenly chuckled as I remembered the lead arrow. Unfortunately, I had the feeling that _that_ would be another conversation that we would be revisiting again, though for now I was content just to wonder where on earth Sophie came up with these things.

" _Elektra_!"

I startled violently, dropping my chamberstick.

As the acrid plume of smoke from the snuffed out flame reached my nose, I turned and found _him_ standing in the doorway just across the corridor from mine.

Lord Ashenhurst.

He was haloed by the glow from the fire burning behind him in his chamber's hearth, softening the angles of his face with shadow. He crossed his arms and shifted position, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe and angling his head so that the dancing light gilded a cheekbone, the sweep of his jaw, the tips of his eyelashes.

All thoughts of the Sophie and the Black Unicorn abruptly vanished.

"Devil hang you!" I said harshly. "You nearly frightened me to death!"

"I beg your pardon Elektra," he said, a corner of his mouth curving up to devastating effect. "But I only raised my voice when you didn't respond to my first two hails for your attention. I wonder, what were you thinking of just now that had you so insensible to your immediate surroundings?"

"Lord Ashenhurst, I told you not to call me that," I snapped. "And I certainly was not thinking of you if that is what you are implying."

"No," he answered, his smirk graduating into a little smile. "You were frowning. And when women think of me, they generally do not frown."

"Well I suppose I must be the exception then," I retorted. "When I think of you, I _do_ frown!"

"So you _were_ thinking of me just now?"

"Good night. I hope you are plagued by nightmares of devils chasing you down to Hades."

"Wait Elektra—"

Reluctantly, I turned back, one hand still resting on the door handle. "Yes Lord Ashenhurst?"

"How is your sister?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"

"Lady Sophronia—she did not come up for dinner. Is she ill?"

"And why would you care about that?" I demanded. "She is engaged you know. I will not tolerate it if you assault her with the same vulgar attentions with which you enjoy harassing me."

"I would never dream of it," he replied, his tone almost solicitous. "Though I would like to know how she fares. Is she ill?"

"No, she is not ill. Fatigued from the journey, that is all. You will have the opportunity to make her acquaintance tomorrow, though I warn you—"

"—You warn me Lady Delemere?" The soft curve of his mouth twitched at the corners.

I drew myself up to my full height, and favored him with my stoniest glare. "Yes, I do warn you. You will have the opportunity to make her acquaintance tomorrow, though you _will_ behave like a gentleman—"

"—I intend to," he replied, "But just for argument's sake, what would you do if I promised to behave like a cad?"

I tilted my head back in an attempt to look down my nose at him, but he was too tall. "Something nasty Lord Ashenhurst."

Unfortunately, this seemed to be exactly what he wanted to hear. His lips curved seductively into a smile that turned my knees to jelly just as a warm flare spread through my belly. For a moment, it shocked me—I hadn't had this sort of reaction to a man since the whirlwind season of my debut. I'd since thought my long years of suffering at William's hands had cured me of such weaknesses.

Silently I berated my traitorous body as he pushed himself off the doorframe and closed the distance between us in a leisurely prowl.

"How nasty?" he murmured.

I knew his type only too well. William had been attractive too.

"Stop," I ordered.

"But where would be the fun in that?" he purred as he used his body to back me up against the door. He placed one hand on either side of me and leaning in until his hips grazed my skirts.

I cursed myself for not retreating into my chamber when I'd had the chance, loathe as I was for him to see me running away.

"You are drunk." I brought my hands up to shove against him.

"Not hardly," he rejoined, amusement warming his voice. He leaned into the palms of my hand, and I was forced to register the radiant heat of his body, and the power of his chest's sleek musculature. "Otherwise you'd be in far more serious trouble Elektra."

I began to squirm as he pressed his body still closer, his legs crowding into my skirts. "I do not want this," I said.

"What don't you want?" he breathed.

I tilted my face up to his. His eyes were half closed, causing the thick fringe of his dark lashes to tangle in the outer corners.

"Hmmm? What don't you want?"

"You," I whispered.

He brushed his mouth over mine, just the barest hint of a touch. "Can you be more specific _Minha Bem-Amada_?"

I gulped. "Kiss."

"You want me to kiss you?" His mouth hovered so close to mine, a deep breath would have joined us together.

"No," I whispered. "No kiss."

"Very well," he murmured, pressing still closer until I felt the points of his hips through his breeches. I quit my wriggling, lest he interpret my movements against him as an invitation. His smile—and my God, _such_ a smile!—deepened. His was truly the mouth of a fallen angel, promising pleasure, wickedness, and a gateway to ruin. "But you will have to hold very, very still," he added in a whisper that jolted those parts of me awake that I had thought lost long ago.

I closed my eyes, hoping to break the spell if I couldn't see him any longer. His mouth hovered over mine for a moment longer, so close I could taste the musk I was breathing off his skin. He moved down to my jaw, his lips warm and soft as he brushed his way slowly towards my ear. He tasted my earlobe with a flick of his tongue, warm and wet. And the gentle nibble that followed seriously threatened my ability to stand under my own power. His mouth moved down to my throat, brushing my pulse point where he lingered for a long, deep breath. Then he was back at my mouth, so painfully close, his breath mingling with mine.

My skin burned for him, his unspoken promise rushing like a hot blush across my body. Before I fully realized what I was doing, I leaned into him, my lips parted as I sought his kiss like Icarus flying into the sun. I knew Ashby Bellecourt would prove my undoing, and at that moment I gloried in it even as my flimsy wings began to melt.

But I met only with a chilly emptiness, and a dark chuckle that caused those newly awakened parts of me to pang insistently. I opened my eyes and found him back in his doorway.

"Good night Elektra," he said, and closed his door.


	6. Chapter 16: Laudanum and Love

CHAPTER 16

LAUDANUM AND LOVE

I spent the rest of the day in Tristan's easy company.

To his immense satisfaction, his luggage arrived while we sat at tea, so I gave him leave to quit my company to refresh himself.

Upon his return to the breakfast parlor, his spirits seemed improved, so I proposed to give him a tour of Scarcliff Towers. I took him to the roof to see the moors, to the Grand Chamber to see the heraldry, and to the library to see the frieze of Diana's court. I wanted to show him the priest hole, but some instinct held me back.

The chapel was still a place of worship for someone, and I found myself reluctant to trespass into their sanctuary again.

So I took Tristan outside through the gardens instead.

We kept our chatter friendly and superficial, each of us careful to avoid any subject pertaining to papa, though I knew his troubled specter haunted Tristan just as much as it did me.

A few hours later, as we sat in the window seat overlooking the fishpond in the garden banquet house, our laughter over recollections of shared childhood antics a bit forced, the first fat drops of rain fell upon the thick, leaded glass.

"Rain?" I exclaimed. "But I did not notice any rainclouds when we were in the garden."

Tristan touched the window with his finger to follow a raindrop's progress down to the windowsill. "They say the weather in these parts is a fickle mistress, apt to change at any moment. The landlord at the inn I stayed at the night before last told me that this has been the wettest summer recorded in county history."

"That doesn't bode well for a shooting party." I traced my own drop of rain down its path through the tiny diamond panes.

"I think your shooting party is going to be spending a bit more time indoors than planned. That is probably where we should be headed ourselves, before this storm opens up in earnest."

It was not a very long walk back to the main house, though someone had locked the French windows of the conservatory, obliging us to wind our way around the northern tower to reach the front door on the eastern façade.

By then the rain was falling heavily enough to necessitate a change of clothes once we reached our chambers, though that wasn't too inconvenient since it was time to dress for dinner anyway.

Still, I planned to speak with the butler about the locked windows just the same.

As we rounded the corner of the tower, I noticed a cloaked rider dismounting just in front of the porch. I remembered overhearing Lord Rydale mentioning to papa earlier that he had some estate business to attend to today, and sure enough, as we approached I recognized our host. As we hurried into the hall together, the butler rushed forward, an urgent look on his face.

"Milord," he greeted Lord Rydale with a bow.

"Yes Mr. Bartholomew, what is it?" The earl held out his arms for his servants to divest him of his drenched cloak and beaver hat. Tristan and I had no outerwear to surrender, but I lingered in order to speak with the butler once Lord Rydale finished with him.

"Lord Ashenhurst has returned milord."

Lord Rydale's pale eyes widened in surprise. "He has? But he's not due to return for another three days!"

"Yes milord. He has met with some misfortune on the road."

Lord Rydale eyed him. "Thieves?"

"It appears so milord."

"Is he harmed?"

"A wound to the arm milord. His valet has tended to it."

Lord Rydale sighed. "Lord Beverley is not going to like this—"

I did not stay to hear the end of the conversation, but took my leave of Tristan.

I had a few pressing things I needed to say to Lord Ashenhurst.

"Lord Ashenhurst!" I rapped on the door. "Lord Ashenhurst open the door."

I waited. Nothing.

"Lord Ashenhurst!" I knocked again. "Either you open this door or I will open it for you!"

This time I heard movements on the other side of the door. The handle turned and it opened a crack to reveal a very small man with white hair and a sour face.

"Lord Ashenhurst is indisposed at the moment," he said. "Perhaps madam can—"

"—It's all right Simon," came a faint voice from within. "Allow Lady Delemere to enter."

Simon glared at me a moment longer, then nodded and stepped aside.

I hesitated, suddenly wary. The guest accommodations at Scarcliff Towers did not have the attached antechambers common in more modern architecture. I was about to step into Lord Ashenhurst's bedchamber. I had not stepped into a man's bedchamber since my first three months of marriage.

I could think of a hundred different reasons not to go forward. A man's bedchamber was a dangerous place, and probably none more so than Lord Ashenhurst's. I was stepping into his world, dictated by his rules.

Still, for me to turn around now would look cowardly. And I would _not_ have him knowing he could make me afraid. And while I wasn't so naive as to assume that a creature with Lord Ashenhurst's attractions would be above rape, I doubted he planned to force himself on me in a house crowded with guests. If he did, he would regret it.

With that cheerful thought, I took a deep breath and stepped into the darkness. To cover my nervousness, I snapped at the valet. "It's freezing in here! Why don't you—"

But the little devil slipped into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind him.

"No!" I whirled around, prepared to fight. But the scene before me silenced me.

The heavy drapes were drawn closed, the only source of light flickering from the fire burning itself out in the hearth. In front of the fireplace stood Lady Rydale's copper bathtub, surrounded by empty water cans. Next to the bathtub stood a small table with a flannel washcloth, an amber bar of soap, and a crystal decanter of brandy with a matching tumbler next to it.

In the bathtub sat the wretched figure of a man, head bent down, exhausted. A wet tangle of hair fell over his downturned face, the pale back of his neck looking vulnerable and exposed. Damp skin glowed in the firelight, shadows accentuating the sleekness of shoulders, arms, and the graceful curve of collar bones. No almond paste or resin clouded the water; only the shadows kept my modesty intact.

I closed my eyes, and focused on the sound of the rain lashing the windows. In the distance I could hear thunder over the moors.

He was just a man, I reminded myself. But this great revelation seemed only to sharpen my senses. Yes, he was just a man, and I just a woman. And here we were, alone together. In the dark.

Nothing seemed more natural, nor more terrifying. I realized things didn't need to be more complicated than this.

I tried to remind myself that I was very angry, but it was useless. None of that seemed important now, and our petty antagonisms stood meaningless here in Lord Ashenhurst's bed-chamber.

I inhaled deeply and opened my eyes. "Lord Ashenhurst—"

"Ashby," he mumbled.

His skin looked so smooth, so luminescent. I wanted to touch him, to feel the contours of bone and muscle, to flatten my palms and follow the graceful curve of his spine down, down, forever down into the water.

I clasped my hands behind my back and took a step backwards, "I beg your pardon?"

He sighed. "Lady Delemere, you have come here about your book, have you not?"

I frowned, puzzling over the odd, dreamy quality of his voice. "I have."

"If you insist upon reprimanding me while I am in the bathtub, I'd prefer that you use my given name. Titles seem rather ridiculous just now, yes?"

"I suppose they do." I bit my lip, hesitating. "Ashby?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you all right?"

He turned his head, looking at me through his hair. His eyes were dark, as black as I'd first thought them to be at the Home Secretary's ball. The firelight reflected in them strangely. I glanced down to his left arm. It had been expertly dressed, but the bandages were black with blood.

"Are you all right," I repeated. "The butler said you were robbed. You've been shot?"

He shifted his position and leaned back, bringing his knees up as he slid lower into the water. Using his good arm to rake his hair back from his face, he fixed me with an expressionless look. His eyes still appeared black, lashes clumped together and heavy with bathwater. I noted the scar on his upper lip, and another just below his left nipple, a narrow length of shiny white tissue running about an inch long. A blade, perhaps? And on his right shoulder he had a large round knot of red scar tissue looking to be only a few months old. Clearly he used his body hard, and not just for the pursuit of pleasure.

"You've been shot before," I said as I cast around for a place to sit. His clothing, crowned with his bloody shirt, covered the chair. I moved over to the bed, a massive four-poster identical to the one in my room, and sat on the very edge.

He nodded, a slow dip of his chin towards his collar bones and back. "A Frenchie ex-patriot winged me in a duel last Christmas."

I pressed my lips together as I watched him, though looking at him almost made it hard to breathe. My hands longed to explore him—not just his shoulders and back, but what remained hidden under the shadowy water as well. So many women had been granted the privilege, and I could be one of them if I wanted to.

"Why do you do it?" I asked, setting my restless hands to stroking the smooth silk damask of the counterpane.

"Dueling?" he said, sounding surprised. "Believe me, it is never _my_ idea."

"I was talking about the women."

He turned to look at me, the firelight sliding around the angles of his face, emphasizing the sharpness of his cheekbones and casting his lower lip in shadow. He watched me a moment or two with those black eyes, then sighed and turned back towards the fire. He began to trace a small design in the crushed lavender floating on the water's surface. "You've heard the stories, I suppose. 'Your reputation has preceded you,' you said on our first night here. My reputation for being the great Libertine of Northumberland, the lascivious lecher preying upon the chaste womanhood of merry old England. And France. And Scotland. And likely even Wales, though I have never been to Wales. I suppose I should not be surprised, since the fair Lady Loveney circulated some rather personal details about me last April".

"Is it true? Or just a façade? Some strange game you play to fool the world?".

"I am a whore, milady."

Those four ugly words, carried on a voice imbued with so much regret, pained me. I blurted out my next words, before I could catch myself. "Have you ever loved any of them?"

"Any of _them_? No."

A strong gust of wind sloshed rain against the window. I shivered in my wet clothes, and scooted myself farther back on the bed, extending my arms behind me in a quest for the bedwarmer's heat.

"But you have loved," I said.

"I am sorry Lady Delemere."

"Whatever for?"

His soft, lovely mouth curved into a smile. "Have you forgotten? You came here to reprimand me for abusing your book. Really my dear, you are behaving as though you have never seen a man in a bathtub before."

"I accept your apology," I continued to grope around on his bed, but there appeared to be no bedwarmer. "However, if I am to call you Ashby, then you must call me Elektra. It is only proper."

"Then I wonder at your sense of propriety. For me to call you Elektra is not proper at all."

"Nor is my presence in your bedchamber," I pointed out. "But you were about to tell me that you've been in love."

" _Am_ in love," he corrected. "I still love her. And I suppose I always shall, which is as tragic as it is stupid."

"You cannot marry her?"

He closed his eyes. "I cannot marry her."

"May I ask why not?"

"Suffice it to say that I cannot."

"She does not love you?"

"Would you?"

I bit my lip, no longer able to ignore my conscience.

"Ashby?"

His eyelids fluttered and opened, and I could see by their gilded tips that his eyelashes had dried. "Hmm?"

"I must confess that I find your forthright manner strange."

He tilted his head to the side, considering my words. "Yes, I suppose you would. Laudanum has that effect. That villain Simon dosed me before he started digging the ball out of my arm. Told me he wouldn't do it otherwise, and I didn't think we could bring out a surgeon in this weather. I believe I am also drunk," he added, gesturing to the decanter of brandy. "But if you are worried that I am baring my soul to you because my better judgment has been impaired, fear not."

"Then why?"

He reached his hand out in front of him as though to touch something, bent gracefully at the wrist with his forefinger extended like Michelangelo's Adam reaching for God. For a moment I thought he imagined something was there, but abruptly he dropped it back to the water and set to tracing more patterns in the lavender. "I do not know. Perhaps I shouldn't, since you despise me. Too late now, I suppose."

"May I ask you another question?"

"You may ask, certainly."

"Isn't love supposed to inspire in one the desire to become a better man? Isn't every shameful affair a discredit to the lady you love?"

"You sound like a medieval troubadour," he replied. "Clearly, you have never been in love. Still, I will answer your question, though I doubt you will be able to understand it."

"I'm listening."

"I can never be with the woman I love, though I never wish to stop loving her. But I cannot live the life of a celibate. Nor do I wish the charms of a lesser woman to ever eclipse the charms of my lady—Christ! Now Isound like a fucking troubadour."

I frowned. "So, what? You move from one dalliance to the next without ever allowing any one woman to linger long enough to challenge your lady's place in your affections?"

"I am a whore to honor my love. Not to discredit her."

"So you shall never marry then?"

"Marriage has nothing to do with love."

I snorted. "Indeed. But since you are being so candid Ashby, may I ask you another question?"

"Must I answer it?"

"Yes, you must."

"Go on."

"Why do you despise me?"

His eyes snapped open, "You think I hate you?"

"If I have wronged you, I should like to know how so I might make reparations. We cannot carry on like this."

He remained quiet for a long while. If I had not been able to see the fire reflected in his eyes, I might have thought him fallen asleep.

"Ashby?" I prompted.

"I do not hate you," he said, his voice hushed to a whisper. "It pains me that you think I do."

I stood up abruptly. "You mock me sir."

"I wish you wouldn't go. Not yet."

I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and started at the late hour. I hurried to the door. "I must go. It is almost time for dinner and I must dress."

"You'll likely be partnered with Sir Tristan tonight," he remarked. "I dare say you shall find him an improvement over my poor company."

Since he spoke the truth, I chose not to answer and left without another word. Once in the corridor, I quickly closed the door behind me and blocked it with my body before Simon could slither back in. He glared at me while I lectured him, very quietly lest his master should hear me. The room was far too cold. He needed to build a bigger fire, change the dressing on his master's arm, and why in heaven's name was there no bed warmer in the bed?

The surly little man informed me that he did not own one, which I found appalling and so ordered him to borrow mine from Willow. I could sleep in damp bed linens for a night, since I feared Ashby's condition might make him more susceptible to fever or catching a chill in his arm.

Finally I ordered him to bring a full dinner up to his master immediately—no broth, since Ashby would need something substantial to dilute all the laudanum and brandy in his stomach.

Then I let go of the incensed valet, and stepped into my own room to dress for dinner.


End file.
